


And I'm Not Sorry.

by aryas_zehral



Series: Imagine Me And You (I Do) [5]
Category: Glee
Genre: Adultery, Anonymous Sex, F/F, PWP, Roleplay, unexpected fluffy endings, well mostly pwp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-31
Updated: 2012-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-17 11:53:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aryas_zehral/pseuds/aryas_zehral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quinn is away on business, annoyed with Santana and frustrated when she meets the woman in a bar.  She invites her back to her hotel room, the woman agrees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I'm Not Sorry.

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetad cos... um KB closes tonight and I'm not finished. Lyric is Madonna's "Human Nature".

The case was boring: petty people being unnecessarily horrible to each other, all of them in the wrong and endless, endless paperwork. Quinn didn't know why she even had to be here, she was basically just dogsbody and research assistant. She wouldn't have been surprised if it was more that her genitals made her the only member of the team not one of the Old Boys and they always seemed to think any woman was better at “handling” a woman than any of them. They were probably right, but considering the woman in question was their client and what they seemed to want Quinn to get her to do was play nice and stop being so mercenary, Quinn found she was pretty much on her side. Patronising assholes, they just wanted to get her money easier and the case out of the way. Either way, Quinn was here in a city she barely knew bored and frustrated.

She was also angry. Santana had been sending snappish texts all day like it was somehow _Quinn's_ fault that she was away on their anniversary. This was her job, her career, these people were influential and could get her known, get her further up the ladder. Staying at home with Santana squeezing in some bought in anniversary dinner and perfunctory sex round Santana's performances was not going to be more beneficial than this week away. Santana would just have to understand that. They would always have next year. Santana loved Quinn too much to leave her and Quinn supposed she felt the same way. 

Her phone beeped: another text. Quinn scanned it briefly, narrowed her eyes, and turned off the phone. She slipped it into her handbag. She didn't need any more messages from Santana tonight.

She was sitting in the bar of the hotel she was staying in. It was nice enough, she supposed, elegant. There were televisions but, in deference to the class of clientèle they served, they were tuned to a rolling news channel. Quinn hadn't looked closely enough to recognise which one. There was a failing musician playing piano in the corner, the music bland enough to ignore although she could tell he kept going off script, ineptly trying new jazz variations. He seemed to get lost and wander back in the most prosaic, dull ways available. Whatever, music used to be part of her life but it really wasn't very much any more and her desire to set pianos on fire had gone with the pink hair.

There was a woman at the other end of the bar who kept looking at her. It was faintly annoying. The woman, hair dark, eyes mischievous, reminded her of Santana back before Santana calmed down, grew up, became needy. She had been watching her since she came into the bar but had made no move to approach her. She had however been approached by a number of men and flirted outrageously with them. This one, youngish in a tailored suit and with arrogant green eyes and the body shape of a narcissist, had lasted the longest. He wasn't going to get anywhere, Quinn may not have been a player any more but she could recognise a woman stringing some needy man along, but the woman was smiling and letting him buy her another drink. Quinn raised an eyebrow at her and turned away.

A few minutes later she saw someone slide onto the barstool beside her, the hint of a shapely thigh below a tailored skirt, and when she looked over she was not surprised to see that it was the woman. Quinn said nothing, just regarded her cooly.

“Hello,” the woman said. Quinn waited. “I haven't seen you here before.”

“Really, you're going with that tired line?” Quinn was scathing, bored. The woman's face twisted momentarily before smoothing back into her mask of amusement.

“It's a classic.”

“It's trite and uninspired. Are you planning on coming back to my room with me or do you want to keep playing your silly game?” Quinn asked bluntly and if the woman was surprised she hid it well.

“I have every intention of coming back to your room,” the woman responded, just as to the point as Quinn. “My name is-”

“I don't care,” Quinn interrupted. She had no intention of seeing this woman again, had no intention of learning anything about her, so why would she care about her name.”

“Fair enough,” the woman responded. “Shall we?” She inclined her head towards the door and Quinn didn't speak in response, merely finishing her drink in one gulp – the alcohol burned on the way down – and standing, striding from the bar. The woman followed. 

They were silent in the elevator, standing beside each other as if they were strangers which, Quinn realised, they were. Two people sharing space and destined to go opposite directions at a later point. That she was more aware of the woman in the elevator with her was unsurprising given what they were planning (planning seemed an exaggeration, she had planned her rushed morning showers with more detail) but she maintained her distance, her disinterest.

Well, she maintained it until they were back in her sterile, bland room. They had stepped in, Quinn dropping her bag onto the vanity just inside the door, and the woman started to speak. Quinn had no desire for conversation, had not invited the woman up here for conversation, so she turned to the woman, backed her against the door to the room and kissed her roughly, hands tangling in her hair, pulling her head into position with no care for her wants. The woman moaned and kissed her back, her hands on Quinn's hips and pulled Quinn tightly against her even as the woman's skirt limited their ability to entwine their bottom halves. 

They stayed against the wall for several minutes, kisses degenerating into clashing teeth and lips caught between sharp teeth. The edge of pain made Quinn thrill; Santana had never kissed her like this, had never devoured her. The fingers at her hips were grasping her so tightly she was sure she was bruise even through the tough fabric of her skirt. 

The woman was impatient, vying for dominance and Quinn found herself pushed backward, slammed into the wall beside the door, as the woman's mouth moved from her lips to her neck, sucking bruises into the flesh there. For a moment Quinn's mind flicked through the clothes in her suitcase, wondering if she had something suitable to hide them with the next day at work, as she pushed the woman's jacket off of her shoulders, moving the woman's hands away from her for a moment. When the woman reached out to touch her again Quinn was distracted as the woman's right hand moved to palm Quinn's breast, digging strong fingers into the flesh there, as the other started to ruck up Quinn's skirt. Quinn's hand joined the one at her breast, resting over it, and the woman stilled, feeling metal on the back of her hand.

“Are you married?” the woman asked, breaking away, looking down at the hand and the thick metal band wrapped around her ring finger.

“Do you care?” Quinn asked, looking quizzically at her.

“What would they say?” the woman teased instead of answering the question, eyes bright with malicious mischief. 

“Does it matter? She's not here, is she?” Quinn asked, pulling the woman deeper into the room, pulling at her top where it was tucked into her waistband. As she pulled the woman into the room she noticed the woman glance at the mirror over the vanity, followed her eyes and admired the picture they made, the mess of contrasts. The woman's dark hair, previously so carefully styled, was sticking up in an ungainly mess but Quinn's bobbed hair was no better, flattened at the back, fluffed up at the front. Quinn's ivory blouse was partially unbuttoned, the woman's red top untucked, baring toned tan skin below. 

Turning away from the mirror Quinn pushed the woman back on the bed, crawled over her to lick at the skin of her belly, her hands delving under the top to play with the lace covered globes below. The woman's breath stuttered as she pulled at her own top, peeling it away from her body, revealing the red lace of her bra. Quinn pulled back to look at her for a moment before fastening her mouth to the hard nipple she could see peeking out from behind the lace, grazing it with her tongue as her hand sought out its pair.

The woman's hands were in the gap between their bodies, pulling at the buttons of her blouse impatiently before simply grasping the edges in her hands and pulling, ripping the buttons from their holes, a couple pinging away onto the floor. Quinn felt she should care, but she didn't simply moved over to the other breast and let the woman pull off Quinn's top and unhook the bra beneath. Quinn found herself topless on a hotel bed with an unnamed woman. 

After a moment she found herself feeling ridiculous half dressed so she toed off her shoes and stood by the side of the bed to unzip and push off her skirt and her panties with short, functional movements. Naked she regarded the woman before her and reached out. Without asking she reached for the woman's zipper and peeled the black pencil skirt from her hips. Below the skirt the woman was wearing hold up stockings and red lace panties that matched her bra. 

Quinn pushed the woman further up onto the queen sized bed, pushed her legs apart before climbing between them to tongue the red fabric. The lace was softer against her tongue than she expected although the edges still caught at her flesh; she could taste the musky arousal of the woman mingling with the fabric. She pushed the fabric against the soft skin there, felt hair poking through the gaps to tickle at her face, insinuated the fabric and her tongue between the woman's folds. The woman's hand tangled in her hair, pressing her closer and Quinn was more than happy to oblige. Quinn's hands pushed the woman's legs further apart, held them open and still, as she sought to shake her apart with only the skill of her mouth. 

After, the woman still panting on the bed, her body listless with the strength of her orgasm, Quinn leaned her head against the woman's belly, lazily licking at the sweat on the woman's skin as she brought herself off with her own fingers, movements unforgiving, nails a touch too sharp for comfort, too aroused by the thought of what they had been doing and the taste lingering on her tongue to last very long. 

***

The next morning Quinn found the woman was still in her bed. She didn't mind. Rolling onto her side, she snagged the woman's wrist and pulled her towards her, making her the little spoon. The woman woke, turned in Quinn's arms and kissed her.

“Happy anniversary baby,” the woman said, smiling but sleepy. 

“Happy anniversary San,” Quinn replied to her wife. “So, next year, I was thinking Paris?”


End file.
